The Butchered BirdSellers
by MoonlitPuddle
Summary: The first time Kit sees Holmes, he's covered in filth and a false beard. The next time she sees him, he is almost killed by a hansom. His cold grey eyes terrify her, but in Holmes' world of danger and brutal violence, Kit suddenly becomes alive...
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer: _**_Yay, disclaimer time! Kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it? I don't own any of the good stuff. _

_Hey peoples! Some of you may remember a series of mine called "The Highly Irregulars of Baker Street" that was up here ages ago. This is my attempt at rewriting that series; hopefully it's going to be a bit better than last time. Anyways, it's very different to last time. Please read and review, and be as harsh as possible in said reviews. _

**PROLOGUE**

The morning after, there's dried blood on the floor. It's brown on the old grey floorboards and I bend down and touch it and I think, Shit, it shows up awful dark — but in a numb, cold kind of way that doesn't have any feeling behind it. I've done my crying; all the tears and screaming against the blanket, they've all gone now and I can look at the blood on the floor and touch it and it means nothing.

The sky is showing blue through the hole in the roof. I stare at it, craning my neck back until it aches and my eyes water. My hands shake. I pull the torn edges of my blouse together and think of knives in the dark, of fire glaring up into the sky, of the crack a hanged man's neck makes when they drop the trap door.

The wind blows through the roof and down the chimney with a moan like a train whistle. I keep expecting the blood on the floor to have gone, to have sunk through the boards and dipped onto the beds of the people down below, but every time I look, it's still there.

Wiggins' hand is a sudden weight on my shoulder, making me jump like a spooked horse.

"Kit," he says.

I turn all the way around, stiffly, like an old and weary stage dancer. There's blood on Wiggins' face, dried and cracked from his eyebrow to his chin, and it's the same colour as the blood on the floor.

"Kit," he says again, then stops, and I know it's because if he says anything, if he lets any thoughts come out of his mouth as words, he's scared of what I might do.

So he says nothing and I understand him anyway. He makes as though to take my hand, but I recoil away from him and, with my heart thudding in my chest, reach for the door. Wiggins straightens his King's-man and follows me out, and we leave the boarding house together.

* * *

A "King's-man" was a scarf worn by costermongers.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer: _**_Once again, I own none of the good bits. _

**ONE**

There's rain in my eyes and the sound of an Irish fiddle in my ears. Simpson's humming along to the tune, grinning because he's feeling clever for knowing the tune when none of us do.

"Stuff it Simpson," Zo growls. He buries his nose in the jug of beer we've been passing along between us and takes a deep draft.

"An' why should I do that?" Simpson asks, still grinning.

"Stupid Irish bum," Zo says, passing him the jug.

"It's jealous, y'are," Red says. The rain has collected in the brim of his hat and is overflowing down his face. A burst of laughter and the beginnings of a new song come from the pub across the road. Its windows glow warmly in the grey evening.

"Who's jealous?" Zo scoffs.

"You are!"

"What's there to be jealous about, you stupid prat?" He pokes me in the side. "Oi Kit, ain't the Irish all lazy bums what aren't allowed in church?"

"There's some churches they go in," I say. "There's that one near the Hare and Hounds, the one with the coloured windows. Give us the beer."

"That's not Christian, though," Zo says, determined to pick a fight. "I 'eard from Pat that they drink blood in the sermon, and the preacher makes 'em do it an' all."

"It's holy blood," Simpson says. "'sdiff'rent."

"Oh yeah, 'course it is."

"'Tis too!" Red shoves Zo off the curb, Zo grabs Red's collar and they scuffle for a few moments. I watch them from over the brim of the jug, enjoying the sour tang in my mouth of beer mingled with rain water.

Simpson hauls Red up by his coat and slaps the back of his head. "Idiot! 'Member what Mam said? You tear this coat, you ain't getting another one and you'll have to wear that flour sack like I did last year."

Red wriggles sulkily and jams his hat more firmly on his head, glowering. Zo blows on his hands, his breath white as smoke in the winter air. "Here Kit, chuck us the beer."

"'sall gone," I say, upturning the jug to catch the last few drops.

"Pig."

"Sod off." I give Simpson the empty jug. He looks into it and sighs.

Red looks up at the grey sky, still heavy with rain clouds. "Simpson, ain't we goin' home yet?"

"All right, you." Simpson gets up and, crossing over, dips the jug into the stream of filthy water running down the gutter in the middle of the road. He comes back, wiping it on his shirt tail.

"Ain't your mam goin' t'wash that?" I ask.

"Yeah, but it gets rid o' the beer smell," Simpson says. He jerks his head at Red. "Come along, then, we're going."

They wave to us, then run across the road and down their alley. My eyes are sore from the rain, and my hair is plastered against my skull. I hug my knees, feeling my skirt cold and harsh against my skin, and stare at the water running over and around the cobbles in the road. No one is about; the weather is too bad, and this is a quiet street. The rain drowns all noise, and if I close my eyes, it could be just me in a cold, wet world that holds me like a prison.

"Ain't you goin' home?" Zo says, and I open my eyes to be blinded by water.

"In a bit," I say, scrubbing my face. "Sod this bloody rain."

"Why don't you go home, then, twit?"

"I'm waitin' 'till Wiggins' dad calms down. When I left, he was throwin' bottles at the wall."

"Where's Wiggins, then?"

"_He_ stayed. Wanted to make sure nothin' bad happened."

"He's such a nice young gen'leman," Zo said, part mocking, part serious.

"Ain't he just," I say, and I am all mockery, making Zo grin.

We stay together at the road side for a little while longer. Then, as the clouds grow heavier and thunder rumbles low over the rooftops, Zo leaves to wander around the pubs and stage doors for a few moments of stolen warmth and I head towards home, dawdling in the hope that the bottle-throwing will have finished by the time I reach the Wiggins' house.

The rain is a steady drumbeat in my ears and the water runs into my eyes. Numbed, I don't hear the cab until it is almost on me. It comes in a sudden rush of noise and spray as it drives through the puddles; the whip cracks and the rain seems to part to let it through, like some enormous black monster. The driver yells, and I dive out of the way, stubbing my toes and bruising my elbow as I hit the curb. The cab drives off in a clatter of hooves and wheels, the driver still cursing. I give him the finger and remain in my puddle, rubbing my elbow. I've scraped it raw and the rain stings it, mingling with the tiny beads of blood and turning them into watery trickles that drip into my hand. Dizziness rings in my head like cracked church bells and I dig my fingers into my ears, shaking my head blindly until it clears. It is then, through the crazy bells and the drumming rain, that I hear someone scream.

I lurch to my feet, splash through my puddle to where the end of the street crooks sideways into a dead end filled with rubbish, dead cats and houses with broken windows. I creep up, press myself against the wall and stick my nose around the corner.

A few houses down, two men grapple in a doorway. One has lost his cap; he's scrabbling at the other's face as though trying to gouge out his eyes, but the other man is taller and stronger and he twists him around and slams him against the door. The hatless man yells, his fingers clutching the air before the taller man captures his wrists in one quick and somehow easy gesture, as though he's catching a fly in his hand.

The bricks scratch my cheek and I grip the wall with numb, sliding fingers and stare hard, feeling an odd eagerness knot in my chest. My heart bumps angrily and I'm suddenly breathless. I taste blood in my mouth, hear the wind scream down chimneys and through holes in tiled roofs. In the doorway, Hatless squirms and brings his knee up, but the tall man calmly hits him across the face and my breath huffs out in a delighted hiss.

"Leave off!" Hatless cowers back into the doorway, struggling uselessly.

"Where's Brodribb, then, Ted?" The tall one's voice is a low growl, hoarse and rough. "You know where 'e is and if you don't tell me, I'll go to Samson – swelp me I will!"

"I dunno, I swear! Talk to Jim, you asked Jim 'bout it yet? He knows, ask him, he's the one who knows it all, you just ask him and he'll tell yer but I dunno where 'e is, I swear it on me mother's grave!"

"Your mother was a whore that died o' pox and didn't 'ave a grave," the tall one says scornfully.

Hatless whimpers, and it sounds like birdsong on a summer morning. He wriggles, and the tall one hits him, making him double up and curse, before being dragged back and flung against the door. The door groans, and with a loud crack, it breaks inwards, and both men fall into the deserted house.

There are shouts, scuffling. Hatless yells, "I told yer Huggins, ask Jim!", then yelps in pain before everything goes quiet. I wait, but there is no sound apart from the rain. Maybe they killed each other, I think, and shiver in anticipation. But there is no sound, and no comes out, and I can't feel my feet for cold, so I leave the slums and carry on my way.

* * *

_Yes, as yet, no Holmes, but he's coming up soonish. The Irregulars did have lives before they met him! _


End file.
